Rose Thorns
by xxArtemisxFowlxx
Summary: Theodore Nott's father has always been seen as a ruthless and cold Death Eater. What everyone doesn't know about him are the many loves and pains he hides, even from his only son.


This just suddenly sprang into my head as clear as day last night...It centers around Theodore Nott's father having to deal with the loss of his wife, who died (that's all canon information). This represents how I've imagined Theodore's life at home and the past he's had to deal with. Neither of his parents are given names in the series, so I named them Emily and Morghen (credit for that name goes to the author of the same screenname).

**Note**: This will make you sad. It also contains alcoholism and brief mentions of child abuse.

Review? :)

-Jackie

* * *

**Rose Thorns  
**_A Nott Family Story_

_

* * *

_

He still misses her, more than anyone knows. It's half of the reason he drinks; part's for the taste, but the other's for Emily: his dead wife.

In truth he hates liquor. His father was an alcoholic when he was a boy and it led to many uncalled for beatings when his old man was in a bad mood. It breaks his heart to think of the times he's hit his own boy, Theodore, while he's been intoxicated. He loves his son, also more than anyone knows…Theo may not have grown up with the best role model father around, but he's a respectable boy, perhaps even worthy to be considered a man.

And he's got his mother's eyes…Emily's light green eyes…

She used to love roses. The whole backyard was once a thriving mecca of various types and colors of long-stemmed rosebuds, their aroma rubbing off on his wife's delicate skin as she tended to them. When she passed away he swore the roses had known; he'd tried his best to care for them, but they had withered away before his eyes, much as she had.

He still remembered the night Emily had told him. It had been after they'd put Theodore to bed, and she'd invited him out into the garden.

"Morghen," she said, taking his hand as they walked along. The moon shone softly on her features; she'd never believed him, but she was a beautiful witch.

"You remember how I told you I'd scheduled an appointment at St. Mungo's?"

"That was for today, wasn't it?" He said in his gruff voice. She nodded silently, looking down at the ground. "How did it go?" Emily squeezed his hand and let go, kneeling next to one of her rose bushes. He towered behind her, watching as her fingers nimbly looked over the new buds.

"They ran a few tests to see if they could locate my pain…and they found it." With her wand she severed the stem of a fully blossomed rose, holding it gently between her forefingers as she smelled its petals. Morghen said nothing as she stood and moved to him, magically fastening the flower to his robes. Emily fixed it in place by hand, leaving her palm on his chest when she'd finished. She stared at the rose for a long time, her lips unable to speak.

"What is it, Emily?" He murmured, reaching out and stroking her blonde hair. She wrapped her fingers around his raised wrist, finally looking up into his eyes. Tears pooled in hers.

"I'm dying, Morghen," she whispered before choking on his name as a cry escaped her. She fell into his large chest, sobs racking her body as he held her. He felt as if he were holding a limp ragdoll, stroking her hair as a little girl does with her plaything.

Morghen opened his eyes, ending the painful reverie. He took another long drink of firewhiskey, his second bottle that night. As he stared groggily into the writhing flames of the fireplace, he forgot about his son who was back home for the holidays; all he could think of was Emily.

Dragging himself from the armchair, Morghen stumbled out of the room and down the hallway, headed for the back door. It was snowing heavily outside, but he was too drunk to think of putting on a jacket. Instead he braved the winter night alone, trudging out into the storm as he forgot to close the door behind him.

Flurries clouded his vision, whisking around him as they blocked his view. But Morghen didn't need to see; he could walk this path in his sleep. He walked through the dead rose garden, stems cracking under blankets of snow as he tread heavily on them. It wasn't much farther now.

Out of the darkness an object loomed into sight; it was a single stone protruding from the cold ground. He took a few more steps before collapsing on his knees next to the gravestone, his hands clearing the snow that lay before it. Morghen pricked his finger on a thorn as he uncovered the red roses growing there. Even now in the bleak of winter they thrived on her burial ground, a sign that her magic still lived on.

"Emily," Morghen drunkenly spluttered, throwing his face upon the roses so that he could inhale their intoxicating aroma. The harsh thorns punctured his face, drawing his scarlet blood onto the pristine blanket of snow. He cried but it was not in pain; now as he lay strewn on the roses, he felt as if he held his ragdoll in his arms once again, her rose petal lips upon his.

He stiffly pushed himself from the brambles after a while, crawling next to the tombstone itself and wrapping his large arms around it. More tears barreled down his crusted cheeks as his bloody face smeared the stone.

"Emily," Morghen choked out. "Emily…" He then felt arms wrap around his middle, tugging him from the grave; a demon was separating him from his Emily!

"Father," Theodore grunted, trying to lift the large man from the ground. "Father!"

"Emily," Morghen whimpered again, holding onto the stone with all his drunken strength, unaware that it was only Theodore behind him.

"Let go, Father," his son called, still heaving at his waist. "Sometimes you have to learn to let go of the past."

"_Let go_," he heard a voice whisper, one that sounded something of an angel. "_Listen to our son, Morghen_." Morghen halted his sobs, wondering if he was beginning to hallucinate. This relaxed his hold and Theodore was able to heave his father upright, helping him balance on wobbling legs.

"Let go, Father," he repeated at a whisper. "What's past is gone; there's no point trying to relive it." Morghen nodded drunkenly as his son swirled into view, snowflakes landing on Theodore's peaked face. The son helped his father begin to walk again, a firewhiskey bottle cracking under his foot as they trudged along through the storm together.

* * *

Did you cry? I know I bawled like a baby when I wrote it.

-Jackie


End file.
